


in the darkest of nights

by hellhoundsprey



Series: ficlet prompts [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fisting, Bottom Sam Winchester, Emotional Sex, M/M, Season/Series 01, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24785584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Prompt: Oooh. Perhaps Wincest- Dean fisting Sam?
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: ficlet prompts [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/478657
Comments: 2
Kudos: 78





	in the darkest of nights

There’s a fragment of hesitation in those eyes. Of consideration.

Followed by the inevitable, “Yeah.”

Dean stresses, “Yeah?” and grinds his hand in place. “You sure?”

“You don’t have to if you don’t— _want_.”

That last word stumbles after; weaker, thinner.

Dean blinks away sweat. Through neon light filtering through the leaky window, through the silky black-blue of night, the decade-old layers of dust accumulated in this room, every room, their lungs.

Sam looks back at him with his lips parted just-so, forgotten. His arms are still slung around Dean’s shoulders.

Dean pushes further because Sam’s body lets him. Swallows his knuckles like a high school dare.

He gives them both a break around the tucked-in-but-still-protruding joint of his thumb.

Asks, numbly, “This okay?” and Sam puts their mouths together, eats at his tongue, like nothing ever changed.

Like worlds haven’t fallen apart.

The next push has Sam gasping a hurt-animal noise, has him snapping so tight around Dean’s hand it will be squeezed free of circulation once (if) he gets it back out, later.

Wrings arms and legs tighter, too. Monkey-kid, still.

It’s been three fucking years and Dean forces his hand deeper, and deeper.

Wrist-and-beyond. Hears, “Fuck,” right in his ear, sob-y and wrangled and Dean counters, “Yeah,” and pumps his arm once, twice.

Dean’s little brother’s insides fight him like they don’t remember Dean.

So he does it again, harder; again, until Sam scrambles for, “Fuck, _slow_ ,” and Dean scoffs, sniffles before he sits back on his haunches, bowed low for obvious reasons.

And Sam’s such a skinny thing, laid out in generic sheets and Dean pushes that Salvation-Army-new sweater further up. Spits in his hand and wraps it around that cock, and Sam hides behind his hands now as he groans—sobs—pleads.

Wordless things.

Someone’s taking a prolonged shower next-door.

Dean’s hand gets shoved at; breathless, “Stop, I’m close,” and he laughs, cruelly, as he does as he’s told.

“Gonna come on my hand?”

Dean’s best boy mumbles, “Uh-huh,” somewhere behind his own fingers, with his hair wild and sticky and his pants somewhere on the other side of the room, together with Dean’s, Dean’s dad-jacket, Sam’s falling-apart Converse sneakers.

Sam’s wrong-soft on the inside. A world of home.

Dean’s entire arm wouldn’t be long enough to reach all those places he inhabits.

Dean grits, “Do it, c’mon,” and, on command, gets what he wants.

Considering how they’ve been spending the past few days, it should be worrying. Sickening.

But it’s beautiful. “ _Sammy_.” Violent, numbing, heart-stopping. “Fuck—”

Sobbed, “Don’t stop,” and Dean could-would never, ever.

Buries his kid underneath himself and growls kisses, and they both still smell like smoke.


End file.
